Face Down under the Wych Elm by Kathy Lynn Emerson Read Free Book Online Page A

is the gaol?"
    "You cannot mean to go there, madam."
    "Mistress Crane is accused of witchcraft, Susanna.” By his tone of voice, Nick's disapproval had not decreased, but now it did seem to be overshadowed by concern for her safety.
    "Madam, you must not involve yourself!” Jennet's impassioned protest startled Susanna. “Think, madam, of the danger! If you attempt to help someone accused of witchcraft, you may be suspected of being a witch yourself."
    "Nonsense."
    "Is it worth the risk?” Nick asked. “Given your well-known expertise with herbs, the business has vast potential for disaster. Ignorant men might leap to all manner of dangerous conclusions."
    Susanna could not deny the wisdom of their admonitions. Still, she could not in good conscience let Constance, or any other gentlewoman, be tried on such a charge without at least inquiring into the circumstances.
    "I only mean to visit the gaol. What harm in that?"
    "What do you think you can accomplish?” Nick sounded disgruntled. “Maidstone Assizes convene ten days hence. That is not enough time to do more than commiserate with the accused."
    Little time indeed, Susanna thought, but if she did nothing, then less than a fortnight from now Constance would be beyond human help. The judges sat but two days. Convicted felons were customarily hanged the day after court adjourned.
    Susanna went up to Nick and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Do not worry before there is need. For the nonce I am naught but a charitable gentlewoman taking alms to poor prisoners."

Chapter 8
    "Faith,” Jennet whispered as she stepped from bright daylight into the darkness of the gaol cell.
    Just ahead of her, Lady Appleton lifted a lantern and called out Constance's name. The candle behind the thick horn panes did little to illuminate the small room. Although the gaol was located in the center row of the High Street, between the corn cross and the butter market, the noise and bustle outside barely penetrated its thick stone walls.
    It was too much to hope, Jennet supposed, that this would turn out to be a different Constance Crane. And that meant it was all her fault that Lady Appleton intended to involve herself in the case. She'd been too hasty, Jennet admitted. Too anxious to interfere. She'd seized on the first excuse to interrupt her mistress and Master Baldwin. Far better to have let them continue what they were doing!
    When her eyes began to adjust, Jennet was able to locate the prisoners, two women attached by shackles to the inner wall. The wavering beam of light fell first on the one sitting on the dirt floor in the near corner. Her arms were wrapped tight around her upraised knees and her head rested upon them. Her coif was askew, revealing scraggly strands of thinning, yellow-white hair that suggested she was much too old to have been Sir Robert's mistress.
    When she lifted her head, Jennet bit back a gasp. The woman was trough-eyed, her left eye much lower than the right. No wonder she had been accused of witchcraft! Never had Jennet seen such an evil countenance.
    Heart racing, Jennet shifted her gaze to the second prisoner, who was struggling to stand despite the iron chains that held her. This one was younger than her companion but a far cry from what Jennet had come to expect in one of Sir Robert's mistresses. She was at least as old as Lady Appleton, perhaps older. Furthermore, she must have been exceeding thin even before she was put in gaol.
    Once on her feet, the woman swayed. Lady Appleton stepped forward to offer assistance but was stopped by a glare that left no doubt in Jennet's mind that help was unwelcome.
    Good. She could not be the same Constance Crane. And she wanted them gone. Jennet was ready to leave.
    Lady Appleton lingered.
    As they watched, the prisoner braced her back against the stone wall, squared her thin shoulders, and looked full at them both. Even in the dimness, Jennet could see recognition dawn on the woman's face. She went still as death,